Hold My Butterbeer
by LWJ2
Summary: An annoyed Harry deals with the Goblet of Fire and Dumbledore; resulting in a very annoyed Hermione. Rated for language.
1. Chapter 1

_It's fourth year, and Harry's name has just come out of the Cup of Doom. He's not happy. Most definitely non-canon. The Potter universe is the property of J.K. Rowling, who has graciously allowed us to play in her sandbox, thank you, ma'am. As usual, I've derived no financial benefit from this, because, as usual, there's not a mid-fifties Vanden Plas Princess parked out front._

 **Hold My Butterbeer** … 

"Harry Potter!" the headmaster announced — shouted, really — for the third time.

Harry rose from his seat at the Gryffindor table. Hermione clutched his forearm. "Harry," she pleaded, "don't do anything … rash."

"Rash?" Harry hissed at her. "Rash? That depends on Dumbledore."

He stood fully erect. "Yes?" he said in a cold tone.

"Your name came out of the Goblet, Harry," Dumbledore explained in his schmoozy 'grandfather' voice. "You must compete, it's a magical contract."

"No." Harry sat back down.

" _Mister Potter_ ," McGonagall half-shouted. "What is the meaning of this? You cannot defy the headmaster."

Harry stood again. "The meaning," he said sarcastically, "is that I did not enter this ridiculous contest. Which," he added, "is more like the _Circus Maximus_ , blood sport for the masses."

"None the less, Harry, your name came out of the Goblet, you must compete or lose your magic," Dumbledore explained, his tone that of a parent speaking to a recalcitrant toddler. "It's a magical contract," he added again.

"Really, Dumbledore?" Harry asked, striding down the aisle toward him. "Let me see that piece of paper you're holding." He snatched the scrap from Dumbledore's hand, and looked at it closely.

"It's from a piece of homework or an essay," Harry stated. "That," he pointed at the scrap, "is _not_ my signature."

"Of course it is, my boy," Dumbledore said patronizingly. "See? Potter, H.J. That's your name."

"Yes," Harry said. "My _name_ , not my _signature_. Contracts must be signed. Most eleven-year olds know that. No signature, no witnessed mark, no contract." He tossed the scrap at Dumbledore. "Look at the other entries," he sneered. Harry snatched one of the other entries from Dumbledore's other hand. "See?" he demanded. "Miss Delacour has _signed_ hers, and printed her school's name below her signature."

"None the less …" Dumbledore began.

"Bullshit," Harry interrupted him. "I'll give you 'none the less,' " he sneered, drawing his wand. "I swear on my magic that I, Harrison James Potter, Heir Potter, did not enter, nor cause to be entered, my name in the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Further, I swear on my magic that I will not compete in the Tri-Wizard Tournament."

A white glow surrounded Harry briefly. "Now, we'll see if I have magic still." His wand slashed obliquely, from left to right. " _Jouer 'Le Boudin'_ ," Harry snarled as his wand reached the end of the stroke.

A bass drum sounded in the dead-quiet of the Great Hall, followed by brass instruments.

"Still have magic, Dumbledore. So bugger off, and take your tournament with you," Harry sneered loudly. He began marching to the door, steps in time with the music.

Several of the Beauxbatons contingent began wailing, three of the girls fainted. Miles Longstreet, an American student, stood, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted " _Vive la mort, vive le guerre, vive le sacré Légionnaire_." Two more French students fainted. Longstreet brought his right hand to his eyebrow, palm down, in a parade-ground perfect American salute. Harry had stopped when Longstreet shouted in French. He turned, facing Longstreet, and returned the salute, palm out, British (and French) style, then dropped his hand, and continued toward the doors.

Longstreet held his salute until the doors closed behind Harry. The music stopped as they did so. Hermione Granger, shaking and pale with rage stood. "I hope you're satisfied, headmaster," she snarled. Dumbledore stood, still as a statue, with his mouth wide open in surprise.

"Miss Granger?"

"You've finally managed to drive him away, headmaster, with your silly, and dangerous 'tests'." Her shoulders dropped momentarily. "And you'll not see him again, unless you survive a few decades more."

"Miss Granger, you're raving," McGonagall stated. "You couldn't have any idea …"

"My God you lot are stupid," Longstreet interrupted. "You've not a damned clue, have you? And likely not sense enough to ask the Beauxbatons lot."

McGonagall sputtered wordlessly, finally getting control of herself. "Mister Longstreet, that will be twenty points from Ravenclaw," she ground out.

"Knock yourself out, ma'am," Longstreet responded agreeably. "Won't make a lick of difference." He nodded toward Hermione, who was busily putting two books into her ever-present bag. "Lady Hermione, will you accept my escort?" he asked.

"Most certainly, kind sir," she replied. They met in the central aisle, and Miles offered his arm to Hermione.

"Miss Granger, Mister Longstreet. Where do you think you're going?" snarled Snape.

Longstreet wheeled about, bringing Hermione with him. "I don't _think_ I'm going anywhere, Potions Master," Miles bit out. "I'm escorting the Lady Hermione to her father, Major Eorl David Granger, 61st Eorl Reghed." He paused briefly. "Then I'm going to really annoy my father, the Colonel."

Dumbledore schmoozed again. "As your magical guardian, Miss Granger …"

"It's _Lady Hermione_ ," she snarled. "And you're _not_ my magical guardian, Dumbledore. If I required one, that duty falls to my head of house per the Hogwarts Charter. As it stands, I've _never_ needed that, either. I've _always_ had a magical guardian, who also happens to be my," Hermione made air quotes , " _muggle_ guardian.

"You will, in fact, be hearing from her. Were I you, Dumbledore, I'd get my affairs in order, and plan for a lengthy stay at her Palace and Fortress of London," Hermione concluded.

Dean Thomas' head hit the table. "Oh fuck, oh fuck," came from him in a muffled, but understandable, tone.

"Shall we leave to music, Lady Hermione?"

"That would be lovely, Mister Longstreet," Hermione replied.

Miles' wand slashed down. "Play _Lili Marlene_ ," he commanded.

They left in step to the SAS's slow march.

— 30 —

 **NOTES**

 _Le Boudin_ is the marching song of the French Foreign Legion.

 _Vive la mort_ , et c.: Long live death, long live war, long live the sacred Legionnaire.


	2. Chapter 2

_It's fourth year, and Harry's name has just come out of the Cup of Doom. He's not happy. Most definitely non-canon. The Potter universe is the property of J.K. Rowling, who has graciously allowed us to play in her sandbox, thank you, ma'am. As usual, I've derived no financial benefit from this, because, as usual, there's not a mid-fifties Vanden Plas Princess parked out front._

 **Hold My Butterbeer …**

 _Chapter Two_

Dean Thomas was still quietly beating his head on the Gryffindor table, although he'd switched his chant to "Oh, shit, oh shit."

"Dean. Mate. What's the problem?" asked Fred Weasley. That his question wasn't in 'twinspeak' was significant.

"Didn't you _hear_ what Hermione told Dumbledore?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Well, yeah."

"Her magical guardian is her muggle guardian."

"She's going to be brassed off …"

"And will contact Dumbles." Fred finished.

"Bugger. Bugger. Sodding bugger," came from next to Dean. Heads turned.

"Neville?" Dean asked.

"Bugger. Bugger. Bugger."

"Neville …"

"Why 'bugger,' Neville?" finished one of the twins.

"Odin's Eye!" Neville swore. "You two don't know?"

"Know what?" chorused the three others.

"You didn't hear what Miles said?" asked Neville.

"Hermione's dad …" Fred began the twinspeak.

"Is some sort of muggle lord," finished George.

Neville covered his face with both hands, and mumbled something. Dean blanched, and began banging his head against the table again. "Bugger. Bugger. Bugger."

"Explain …"

"Please?"

Dean stopped banging his head. "You tell them, Neville. You probably know more than I do."

"Bugger," responded Neville. "Bugger, bugger, bugger." Dean resumed beating his head on the table.

"Neville?" chorused the twins.

"Stop that, Dean," Neville ordered. "All you're doing is damaging the table."

"Okay," Dean replied. "Now tell them."

Neville sighed. "Your mum didn't teach you any history, did she?" he asked the twins.

"Some. Not much," replied Fred.

"Didn't understand the number before Hermione's Dad's name?"

"Well …" began the twinspeak.

"He's the sixty-first lord," George finished..

"Bugger. Bugger," Dean resumed chanting.

"Where's Rheged?" Neville continued.

"England?" the twins chorused.

Dean's chant changed. "Stupid. Stupid. Sodding buggering stupid. Stupid …"

"Yes, Dean," Neville said. "Now shut up, it's difficult enough without shouting over your cursing."

"Okay, Neville."

Neville continued. "Hermione's dad …" He paused. "Okay. No questions until I'm done, you two."

"Okay."

"No twinspeak when you do."

The twins looked at each other, both nodded slowly.

"Hermione's dad isn't just 'some sort of muggle lord,' " Neville began again. "He's a bloody Marcher Lord. Probably the _oldest_ Marcher Lord.

"Think, you lot. Sixty-first Eorl Rheged. _Sixty-first_. That means the title goes back to just after the Romans. If not before."

The twins blanched, their freckles standing out vividly. Both began shaking their heads from side to side, as if denying what Neville had just said.

"And then there's his rank," Dean said. "He's a bloody major in the SAS." Dean paused. "Or was. Doesn't make … oh, shit."

"Dean?" Neville asked.

"Shit. Shit. Shit," Dean responded. "He's _that_ Granger. Shit.

"My dad. He's my dad's CO. Shit."

"This means something, Dean. Explain, please?" asked Neville.

Dean sighed. "Miles left out one thing," he said quietly. "He's not just the Eorl Rheged. He's Major Eorl David Bruce Granger, VC, et c., 22nd SAS, _and_ a fucking Marcher Lord. Fuck.

"He's probably the most dangerous man in the U.K." Dean finished. "And my dad is his Company Sergeant-Major," he added. "Formally, Warrant Officer 2nd Class Robert Dean Thomas, DSC, et c., 22nd SAS. Bugger."

"Okay," Neville said. "Now, one at a time, you two. Questions so far?"

"Marcher Lord?" Fred asked.

"They secure the borders of the Kingdom, traditionally the Welsh border," Dean replied. "Most of the titles go back to the fucking Normans. Hermione's dad's goes back a lot further, he's 'Eorl,' not 'Earl.' It's the antique spelling." He paused. "Rheged was … is … in the north-west, up against Hadrian's Wall, east to the mountains. Now it's part of Cumbria."

"SAS? VC? DSC?" asked George.

"Special Air Service. Also Sport and Social. It's a British Army unit. They do black ops. The VC … Victoria Cross. It's the highest decoration given for bravery in combat. Usually posthumously. The DSC … Distinguished Service Cross … ranks just under it.

"What it means," Dean continued, "is that someone did something suicidally stupid. The DSC, in my dad's case, means he was there backing up Major Granger, and also doing suicidally stupid things, one step behind him.

"All I know is that it was in the Falklands, Dad won't talk about it, presumably the Major doesn't either. Hermione may not even know he has it."

"Black ops?" George asked.

"Secret operations, hence 'black,' " Dean said. "Think hit-wizards."

"Well, shit," Neville said. "That's even worse."

"Worse? Worse? Hell's bells, Neville, there _isn't_ a worse," exclaimed Dean. "Didn't you hear what Hermione said about her magical guardian?"

"Ummm. I kind of blanked out at 'Eorl,' Dean."

" … _her Palace and Fortress of London_ , Neville. HER."

"Odin's Eye," Neville cursed. "We're … well, Dumbledore, anyhow, is fucked."

"So, Hermione's guardian is important?" asked George.

" _She's the fu …_ " Dean exclaimed. "Ahhh. She's the Queen, you idiots."

"So what can she do?" Fred asked.

Neville began beating his head on the table. "Stop that, Neville. If I can't do it, neither can you," Dean said. Looking at the twins, he asked "Was there a part of _Dread Sovereign_ you two don't understand?"

"Seriously powerful?" George asked.

"Palace and Fortress of London, George. As in Tower of London. _Her Majesty's Palace and Fortress of London_ , George. The Bloody Tower," Dean said quietly.

"Fuck." Fred brightened. "With any luck, Malfoy will mouth off to her."

 **NOTES**

Marcher lords defended the kingdom against the Welsh. Here, I've expanded that to include what was once the kingdom/principality of Rheged, now, as I noted, a part of modern Cumbria.

Dread Sovereign: used in the Mayflower Compact. I decided that the title fit the circumstances of this story.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hold My Butterbeer**

 _Chapter Three_

"How do we do this, Lady Hermione?" asked Miles.

"Do what, Miles?"

"Clothing, among other things," Miles answered. "Can't show up in the mundane world dressed in these things."

"Oh." Hermione thought a bit. "Elves, hopefully. Dobby?"

Dobby popped in. "Master Harry's Grangy called me?"

"Dobby, can you get our muggle clothing for us?" Hermione asked. Dobby nodded and popped away. Seconds later, he appeared again with two trunks, shrunk into the size of a match box.

"Tap trunks with yous wand, Mistress. Take what you need, tap again, will shrink."

"Thank you, Dobby. If I call again, will you be able to come?"

"Yes, Mistress. Master told me to. Also you, Mister Miles."

"Thanks, Dobby," Miles said. Turning to Hermione, Miles said "Milady, we can change in one of these classrooms." Hermione nodded as they entered one of the abandoned classrooms. Dobby followed, waved a hand, and changing screens appeared in two corners.

When they emerged, Dobby was waiting. "Dobby can pop you wherever yous needs to go," he said. "Must go to gates first," he added.

Once outside Hogwarts' gates, Hermione told Dobby "Take us to Diagon Alley, Dobby, just outside the Leaky." Outside the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione charmed the two of them with a glamour, appearing as a middle-aged nondescript wizarding couple. They sat at a corner table near the muggle entrance, Miles ordered butterbeers for the two of them. The next time someone emerged from the Leaky's floo, they quietly left through the muggle entrance. Standing in the shadows, Hermione cancelled their glamours.

Miles hailed a taxi and told the cabbie to take them to the May Fair Hotel. They sat in comfortable silence, Miles tipped the cabbie £5 when they arrived. Hermione quirked an eyebrow. "He'll remember the tip, and a teenage couple," Miles said quietly. "Not much else." He checked his watch. "A light supper, then your parents," he suggested. Hermione nodded. "Can you afford this, Miles?"

He laughed quietly. "Yes, milady. As long as you don't order foi gras or caviar."

"You order, Miles. Seafood would be nice, it's apparently a foreign dish at Hoggy." He nodded in agreement.

The maitre d' hotel looked up as they entered the restaurant. "M. Longstreet, it has been some time."

They shook hand briefly, during which a £20 note disappeared. "It has, Frederick. I've been away at school. A quiet table, preferably in a corner, if you can."

"But of course, M. Longstreet."

A waiter appeared behind the maitre d' hotel when they were seated. "We'll begin with the soup of the day," Miles told him. "Followed by prawns for two, and whatever the chef recommends in the way of seafood. Vichy water with lemon to start, we may have tea or coffee later." The waiter nodded.

Shortly thereafter, a sealed bottle of mineral water, two glasses, and a small plate of lemon slices was delivered. The soup, it turned out, was bouillabaisse. Hermione was delighted.

"Vichy water? Really, Miles, you're beginning to sound as if this were out of Casablanca." She giggled.

"We'll always have London," Miles deadpanned. Hermione giggled again, then attacked her soup.

Sometime later, after Hermione had demolished her half of the prawns, and a third of Miles', she asked "How is it you're known here, Miles?" He took a sip of water, obviously stalling. "Well?"

Miles sighed. "My dad. He's the Assistant Naval Attaché at the Embassy." He looked across the restaurant. "Hence, the quiet corner table."

"With a view of the entire room, and three steps from the kitchen door," Hermione observed.

"That, too," Miles responded. "You don't miss much, Lady Hermione."

"Is that how you know about my father?"

"Holders of the VC aren't exactly unknown in the mundane world," Miles observed.

"Rheged isn't," Hermione observed. "At least as far as Americans go." Fortunately, sea bass fillets stuffed with mushrooms and lobster arrived, saving Miles for a while. Hermione made delighted noises and dug in.

When they were done, a plate of cheeses arrived, it was followed by tea and a lemon mousse.

Miles patted his lips with his napkin, then glanced at his watch. "I guess we've put this off as long as we can," he observed. "Unless you want an evening at the theatre also."

Hermione shook her head. "No," she said in a regretful tone, "as much as I would enjoy it, no. Thank you for a wonderful meal, Miles."

Their waiter came over in response to a glance from Miles. Their heads hovered briefly. "Sip at your water or tea, Hermione," Miles said softly, "and prepare to leave when I tell you." He reached inside his jacket for a note-case, and laid three £100 notes under the edge of his dessert plate. A £50 note was slipped into his jacket pocket.

Almost immediately after that, a scrum of wait staff hurried from the kitchen, their waiter approached, and Miles stood, taking Hermione's left hand. In the middle of the confusion, they walked quietly into the kitchen. Miles moved to where a man in a chefs toque was standing, supervising several cooks, and plating a meal. He looked up as they approached him.

"Miles! Sneaking away again?"

"My lady doesn't like … being noticed," Miles replied. "Chef, may I present my date, Lady Hermione. Milady, this is …"

"Chef James," Hermione interrupted Miles. "Thank you for a lovely meal."

"It was my pleasure, Lady Hermione." The chef glared at their waiter. "Henri didn't tell me you were dining with us." Henri wilted under the glare. It was obvious that more would be said later. "Please give my regards to your parents, milady." He turned to Miles. "Should I mention this the next time your father dines here?" he asked.

"Go ahead, Chef. I'll be seeing him later tonight," Miles replied in a glum tone. He produced his note-case again, and handed the chef two £50 notes. "For the staff," Miles said quietly. "That was nicely done." The chef nodded, and pocketed the notes. "And for you, for a wonderful meal, Chef." Miles handed over the £50 note he'd pocketed earlier.

"You are going to Lady Hermione's town residence?" the chef asked Miles.

"Yes," Miles replied briefly. "We'll walk."

"Wait a moment," the chef told them. He picked up a telephone, and spoke briefly. "Your escort will arrive momentarily." Shortly after that statement, two men in non-descript suits arrived. They pointedly nodded at Hermione. "Milady," one of them spoke, "whenever you and your escort are ready."

HMBB • HMBB

The non-group walked quietly down Lansdowne Row to Fitzmaurice, then crossed into Berkeley Square, stopping at the second house. Miles noticed a grey Bentley parked a few doors down. "Fuck me," he muttered.

As one of their escort knocked in a pattern, the other muttered to Miles "I'd say buggered, young sir, and well at that."

"Special Branch?" Miles asked quietly.

"Something like that, young sir."

"Bugger."

"Indeed."

The door opened, and they were met by another man in another non-descript suit. "Milady, Mister Longstreet. You're expected, they're waiting in the library."

Hermione blanched, took Miles' hand, and led them upstairs to the first floor, knocking on a door. "Enter," came a voice from within.

Hermione opened the door, they were met by the sight of her father and another man rising from their seats. Miles dropped her hand and stiffened to Attention, as a third man turned from pouring drinks.

"Daddy? Godfather!"

Miles bowed from the waist. "Your Grace, Father, Major."

"Mister Longstreet. Thank you for escorting my goddaughter home," said the Duke of Edinburgh.

"You're welcome, Your Grace." Miles was the colour of a sun-bleached sheet. "Major Granger, your daughter, safely delivered."


End file.
